


These Boots are Made for Walking

by CaitieLewd



Category: Original Work
Genre: BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, Boots - Freeform, Degradation, Dom/sub, F/M, Leather Kink, Lingerie, Rope Bondage, Self Insert, Sensation Play, Spurs, male dom, spreader bar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-25
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-07-02 08:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15793053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaitieLewd/pseuds/CaitieLewd
Summary: And that's just what they'll do...





	These Boots are Made for Walking

**Author's Note:**

> The first fantasy Sir asked me to write out was to involve boot spurs. A very creative idea, and fun fantasy to think about...

My fists clench and I squirm a little, adjusting my position to make sure they don’t lose circulation while tied above my head to the wooden post behind me. The back of the blindfold catches a little, but doesn’t budge. My ankles thunk against the floor slightly, moving stiffly due to the spreader bar keeping my legs wide open. The only clothes left on are my bright crimson panties, but I know they aren’t long for this world, just like the rest of what I started with.  
I’m trying to hold still because of the weighted clamps on each of my nipples. But every minute or so I have to move, whether it’s to relieve my body or my nerves. They shift and swing each time I do, causing a biting pain that causes me to whimper and cringe, which only causes them to move more. It only stops when I force myself to be still and bear the pain.  
Footsteps approach, heavy and slow, heel to toe of boots striking the hardwood floor as they get closer. A dangerous metal sound comes with each step, the spin of a metal spur. It sounds harsh and cold, like knives being sharpened.  
The boots thump closer and closer until they’re directly in front of me. I freeze, hold my breath. What is happening? Do I say anything?  
Another step forward. Sir is standing right over me, feet planted on either side of my thighs. I can feel how close he is, looming over me. My heart is pounding. What’s going to happen next? Does he want me to suck him off, or—  
Sir raises his foot. I gasp and lean back as much as I can. Something cold and pointed grazes my toes, causing my feet to jolt. The weights on my nipples swing, but I hardly notice as my attention is elsewhere. It’s the spur. The touch is so gentle I almost don’t recognize it, but the sound metal on metal as the wheel spins is unmistakable. It travels down my foot, up my calf to my knee, each spine just barely kissing my skin before he pulls it away. I swallow and take a deep breath. He was so gentle, but he could have made it painful so easily.  
Sir leans forward and places a hand on the post I’m tied to. His other boot rises this time, and the metal of the spur touches my inner thigh. It’s not so gentle this time. The spikes travel slowly and deliberately, making brief indentions in my skin as they move higher, and higher…  
Suddenly the bottom of Sir’s boot firmly presses against my lower abdomen. At the same time, the spur digs against the lace of my crimson panties, a spine hooking under the elastic just enough to pull it back a finger’s width.  
The scent of metal and polished leather hits me and I can’t stop a small moan. “Nnnh…” The sole of Sir’s boot is cold and rough, aggressively pushing me down as he twists it just a bit for good measure. That’s right Sir, I’m beneath you. I don’t even deserve to be touched by you. Step on me, wipe your filthy boots clean on me. It is my greatest pleasure to be of use to you in whatever way you see fit.  
Sir presses a bit harder, hooking more of the spur under the elastic of my panties. My teeth clench and I twist in the ropes just a little, but I don’t move or speak. I know that would be a mistake right now.  
Sir gives a small twist of his ankle, then the spur suddenly pulls free and the elastic snaps against my skin with a small sting. “A-ah—” I jump, remembering the nipple weights too late, which pull another yet whine out of me.  
A chuckle of amusement from above. “Thank you, Sir,” I say, remembering my place. Apparently this is the right thing to say, because the boot lifts off my abdomen and Sir moves away, boots telegraphing his movements but not his intentions. I force my fingers to flex and twist my wrists in the ropes just a little, trying to loosen up and catch my breath. If this is how Sir is starting things, I can hardly wait for what comes next.


End file.
